Like this:

here, her desperation on display. On bent knees and red eyes. There is nothing subtle about this pain. She can not hide it.

‘Daddy, I know you can help me. you are my last bus top’ she says.

I can not hide my disgust. my throat bubbles,my ears hurt.In this moment I realise, pain can make you worship anything. Here, sprawled at the preachers feet, my mother is an example.

She continues her ritual, flinging herself on him as if her sorrows will leave her body with this gesture. He holds her, pats her back. Motions for one of his minions to bring her a chair. Mother takes this as bait, a beckoning…She spills the contents of her heart all in one breathe….

‘My son is running mad, my husband has brought his mistress into the house, she has a child, my home is on fire…what will they say, what will people think?’

I have not moved from where I have been standing since we got here. Rage comes, it shakes me,I hold the church doors for support. Sadness comes next, it breaks me, brings me to my knees. I look at my mother, pouring her heart to the preacher man as he pats her pain away. She shudders and shakes, crying still. The preachers minions are oblivious to my presence. They are transfixed on my mother. listening intently with pity plastered on their faces. Who is this woman? I do not recognise her.

Like this:

Where I come from, you do not say your deepest wants for fear of who is passing.

Everything is a completion. you have troubles, I know still, They are not bigger than mine. You are the happiest human alive, you must learn to wear this camouflage till you have enough privacy to nourish your truth; sadness.

You mustn’t be sad too long either, it is impossible to have your depressions kill you, there are demons in your fathers house already nailing your coffins. Gather your strength, you must bury them all. Death by fire and holy water.

You can wear your happiness but do not parade it too long. Truly, do not parade it at all, you have no such rights. Tell your good news only to your lover at home. Actually, do not tell him, the gods from his village maybe listening. They may grown resistant to the fire that burnt your family’s juju.

You must lock your flight details in your minds safe. A million times it has been said, tell not a single soul. You must trust no one, your mother has echoed it enough, the world is dangerous.

Where I come from, you have not lived until you have danced the dance of suffering. you are only half alive if you have life easy. Where I come from, you can not have life easy, who is your daddy? we will take good things but only in bouts, The lights must come on but not for too long. Nothing very constant or fear sets tents in your hearts.

Still, where I come from, resilience is abundant. We love from our souls and feed our love to you. Sharing is second nature. Everybody’s spice comes together and dinner is served. Your neighbour is always your sister until branded enemy by the preacher man.

Sitting in winters hold, home calls me, the hustling and bustling of the markets, comradeship, Saturday morning, the aroma of your neighbour’s cooking..red oil and purple onions..

Like this:

My ex lover said I was selfish still, he only put himself first, second and fourth too. I could come in third but 3 is a crowd he told me once. My lover told me he had never felt the depth of attraction he felt for me. when we met, he said he was drawn to broken people. I spoke of this tale to my friends but they asked that I be more open minded, they suffocate me with their analogies but they are My small circle, a closed group.

My therapist told me he had no one to talk to about his troubles. I was in search of clarity and windows to openness so I listened. He said his daughter died from a tumour in her brain. she was a neurosurgeon. I found this hilarious so I laughed, this is how I was diagnosed with misplaced emotions.

I talk too much, I share very little.The sessions did me no good so I went to my priest. He taught me of God, his unconditional love and how he hates me for all my iniquities. My troubles came as consequences of my sins he said. My soul was dead and satans minions had chained me to hells graves. Fortunately, there was hope for me he said. If I walked the walls of repentance, Graced his sheets quietly enough and stood in my truth. I had never met a more gracious fibster.

I decided, I would get rid of my troubles alone so I searched google for all the ways to set my old soul on fire. I got 27,310 matches. I realized then I wasn’t gassed enough to start a fire. I have left that fit for the arsenics.

well,

none of this has brought me clarity or pulled the lid my mind has been said to have however, I’m off to have a chit-chat with my closed friends.

I’m too grown for this , lost my auction at assumptions gates, the will to stand shifty tides, sort through mixed signals and read between ill, faintly crafted lines. The world is moving and I must scurry along with it.

I have no room for guesses or tic tac toes on where you stand.

‘are you here or there?’,

this is no lovers brawl, no tug of war either. I have given enough self, I must preserve what is left for me. Regrettably, I have left too much space for your frivolities, and wished for too long that you abandon juvenile manners. Time has taught me to careless for drifty ways.

I will not read minds, poetry awaits.

I will not chase, I have given up feline ways.

I will not plead for intentionality or open honesty.

I will not bleed for trust, still, I’ll stay worthy of it.

I will not push for transparency or leap out of comfort zones to comprehend the unsteadiness of your tides.

I will not intently open my souls doors for you, still I shall not close them. I refuse to present you with the chance to betray my efforts. Again.

I will not wait to catch hints and pick up crumbs of real intent. I simply do not have the time. Frankly, I care not for wavering allies.